


The Monster Words

by MissEllaVation



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 02:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16380050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissEllaVation/pseuds/MissEllaVation
Summary: Monsters exist, but not in this room.





	The Monster Words

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, and welcome. Because I like to torture both myself and others, this small fic takes place in the aftermath of Bono’s sudden voice loss in Berlin, on the (still ongoing!) experience+innocence tour. But Bono is of course FINE, and the band has moved on to Cologne to play their next show. I know almost nothing about Cologne, nor about the fancy hotels therein, but I googled and looked at some interiors. The rectangle theme is just…me? I guess. I had to start somewhere. Yet another hotel room drama for the lads! 2974 words of Edge P.O.V.
> 
> Too many notes for such a short fic: 
> 
> Vocalzone is a line of throat lozenges and sprays that seems to be popular with singers and public speakers. Do our guys use them? No idea.
> 
> My first taste of chicken-lemon-orzo soup came from a Greek deli in Massapequa, New York. Progresso makes a decent one if you’re interested.
> 
> Paula Meehan is an Irish poet I choose to believe Bono might admire. She’s a few years older than him, and grew up in his neighborhood in Northside Dublin. :) Do read [My Father Perceived as a Vision of St Francis](https://dedaluspress.com/mysteries-of-the-home-sample-poems-by-paula-meehan/).
> 
> Stephen King’s book, [On Writing](https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/on-writing-stephen-king/1120113549?ean=9781439156810#/), is fantastic. I just don’t enjoy the horror stuff. 
> 
> Aoife is the name I’ve given to a fictitious personal assistant. Pronounced “ee-fa,” more or less.
> 
> This fic is more emo than sexy. I mean, it’s got soup in it for fook’s sake. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for believing in this love, I guess.

We’ve agreed that this suite is a hip decorator’s nightmare. The chairs are low, fabric-covered rectangles. The tables are rectangular constructions of glass and teak. The pattern on the carpet, while subtle, is upon close inspection made of interlocking rectangles. Even the water glasses are sort of oblong.

“Could be worse,” you say. “Could be cubes. Then we’d have to fight our way through all three dimensions just to get to the bathroom.”

“Bono, you _do_ know what dimension you’re in, don’t you?”

“Hm?”

“Never mind. The view is nice up here, anyway. If you crane your neck, you can see the bridge all lit up.”

 **“** Oh yeah. I like that bridge a lot. The Whozenplotzer.”

“Hohenzollern.”

“Gesundheit. Yeah, it’s a great bridge. Sort of broad and rounded, like me.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing. ‘That bridge is a husky little fucker, just like Bono.’”

“Fuck off. Also, look—see the two steeples on the cathedral? They remind me of being at home in New York. If you were to look at my building from across the park, I mean. If you use your imagination. Of course, the cathedral is much bigger.”

I put my arms around your husky, sentimental little self. You’re warm as always, in your old plum tee-shirt with one of my plaid shirts on top. My shirts never button properly on you, and the sleeves are always too long. “You’re not supposed to be talking so much tonight, remember?”

You lean back against me and turn your head as your eyes sweep over the nighttime cityscape. I know you’re nervous; I can feel your limbs coiling up for a fight. But you pretend otherwise.

“I’ve been talking just fine for the last forty-eight hours, Edge.”

“So you have. But please bear in mind that I’ve been dispatched to babysit you tonight, and I’m to make sure you don’t do anything too Bono-esque.”

“Bono-esque?”

“Yeah. You know, like shouting back at CNN for an hour in faux-German, or singing ‘Pagliacci,’ or eating a whole box of Cap’n Crunch.”

You pull away from me, and fix me with the Blue Glare of Death.

“Well, it’s a very scratchy breakfast cereal, Bono.”

“Right. Anyway, _bollocks_ you were ‘dispatched.’ You dispatched yourself.”

“That I can neither confirm nor deny. But look over here.” I take your hand and lead you across the vast, echoing living area. “See this table?”

“That is a very sleek, rectangular table, The Edge.”

“It _is,_ but that’s not the point. Look, I’ve got you all sorted. We’ve got your honey-lemon Vocalzone lozenges—” You make a truly sour face at this, your mouth pulled up under your nose like a parabolic arch. “Also, I got you some chicken-lemon-orzo soup.”

“I sense a strong lemon theme here.”

“For the vitamin C, sweetheart. And, of course, we’ve got all seventeen humidifiers going at full steam.”

“There are three humidifiers. Calm down, The Edge.”

“Well, I can already feel the condensation dripping off my eyelids.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re a fucking lightweight.”

“Thanks. So I guess that shit Dr. Frankenstein shot you up with is working too?”

“It’s pronounced _Fronkensteen.”_

“Bono.”

“His name was Fischer. And that was the _only_ shit that worked, as far as I can tell. Also, he didn’t ‘shoot me up.’ I inhaled it. What kind of druggie do you take me for?”

“Yeah, but you know, those steroids are really bad for you. They mess up your joints, drive up your blood sugar…” I sound tiresome even to myself. I think I’ve been living in California too long.

You pop a lozenge in your mouth and wince. “Oh Edge. My joints are titanium and my blood sugar is at absolute zero.”

You’re very plucky tonight. Maybe it’s a side-effect of the steroids.

What I don't want to tell you—what I'm trying to cover up with all this mother-hen business—is that a big part of me is still on that stage in Berlin, still thinking three steps ahead to the next mark I must hit, to the next pedal to press, and only becoming aware slowly that you've stopped singing. From the corner of my eye I see Adam moving toward you in a blur of light like a halo. He is always more present in the moment than I am. This hurts. It should be me, reaching out, asking if you're okay. When you turn toward me under those hard yellow lights, the look on your face goes into my heart like a blade. I know every possible worst-case-scenario going through your head. I know them by name.

But back to the present.

“Anyway, I'll make you some green tea with lemon and ginger. Good for the immune system, and very calming.”

“You know what would be _really_ calming?” You cock your eyebrow at me, and with faint hope born of long habit I let my hand drift down to your ass. “No, don’t get excited, The Edge. I was gonna say, _solitude_.”

“Well. Now I’m hurt." Be playful, Edge. You can do it. "No, don’t touch me, Bono. It’s too late. The moment has passed.”

“Edge.” You give me a little shove, then lay your head on my shoulder in a way that makes me feel pleasantly big and strong. “Anyway, all the soup and green tea in the land wouldn’t have put my arm back together, right?”

“I know that.”

“Or my back.”

“Of course not.”

“Or my face. Right here.”

I kiss the spot you indicate, alongside your left eye. “My poor bionic babe. You’re right of course. And I’m the last person in the world to put down western medicine. After all…”

“I know, love. I know.”

I’m thinking of _you_ , but you think I’m thinking about Sian. So now I’m thinking about her too, of course. Enough of this. All is well, thank God.

“Anyway, you’re gonna eat the soup that I took such pains to order, and you’re gonna drink that fucking tea once it steeps.”

“Fine. You don’t have to threaten me.” You kiss my cheek. "Thank you for looking after me, Edge."

“Of course. Now let’s see if you can keep quiet for thirty minutes. Starting…”

“Oh, you officious motherfucker.”

“Did I hear something? A little voice? No? Okay then. Shut the fuck up. Starting…now.”

***    

In “my” bedroom, I find magazines and newspapers fanned out on a circular(!) table. They’re all in German, except for the _Irish Sun_ (thanks loads for that, hotel staff) and one incongruous Stephen King paperback, new-looking.

I cross the living area, barking my shins on various rectangles, and walk into "your" bedroom. You’ve eaten your soup and drunk your tea, and now you’re tucked up in bed, surrounded by phone, laptop, and a slim volume of Paula Meehan’s poetry. Reading glasses perched on your nose. You glance at the book in my hand. “‘Cujo?’”

“Shh. Don’t talk. Yeah, it was in the other room. In English no less. Makes you wonder whether they actually cleaned up after the last guests.”

You pat the bed beside you, and I slide in. The bedding is plentiful and warm, as are you, dressed only in your tee-shirt and underwear.

“Maybe the staff is trying to tell us something, Edge.”

“Like what?”

“Like…don’t leave your room after midnight, for rabid Alsatian dogs stalk the corridors. _Play with us, Edgy._ ” You point your scruffy chin at the book. “He’s actually not my favorite.”

“Shh. Stephen King? Nor mine. Nice guy, but I always feel there’s enough horrible stuff in the world already without putting stories like this into it. Turning a nice family dog into a monster—why.”

You start to say something, then look at me and close your mouth. Good boy, trying to be obedient. You put down your book and make a cradling gesture with your arms.

“Right. No, children _don’t_ fare well in his books, do they. I couldn’t deal with ‘Pet Sematary.’ After a certain point, I couldn’t read anything about harm befalling a child. Not even silly shite like this.”

You scoot a little bit closer to me.

“Sweetheart. No, don’t move away. Lean on me. There. Anyway, that was a long time ago, and we all came through with daring and aplomb, didn’t we?” You know exactly what I mean, of course; I don’t have to elaborate. And I really don’t want to think about illness. Anyone’s. “Nothing is quite as scary now that she—now that they’re all big.”

“Always a _little_ scary. Being a parent.”

“Ssh. Yeah. Even when they’re over thirty. Even when they have their own kids.”

“Old Grandad.”

“That’s me. Still can’t wrap my head around it. It’s so weird to think of myself as some kind of patriarch… But anyway, the _good_ part of this book, the part that always stuck in my head, were The Monster Words. And I just found ‘em.”

You give me a quizzical look.

“Oh. It’s a little poem the dad in the book made up for his son, to help him go to sleep at night. Ironic, of course. But here, listen:

Monsters, stay out of this room!  
You have no business here.  
No monsters under the bed!  
You can't fit under there.  
No monsters hiding in the closet!  
It's too small in there.  
No monsters outside of the windows!  
You can't hold on out there.  
No vampires, no werewolves, no things that bite.    
Nothing will touch you, or hurt you, all this night.”

 

I still love the way you smile when something catches you by surprise, all wide eyes and quirked lips. I’ve been watching your face do this for more than forty years. “Yeah, I knew you’d like that.”

“It’s a prayer, Edge. Well, a blessing.”

“It is, I guess. Not that it worked very well.”

I watch while you think this over. Now your eyebrows pull together in the middle; your mouth thins to a line. Some people interpret this expression as anger or contempt. I know better. It’s curiosity; it’s deep thought. It’s how you look when you chase whatever is racing around inside your head.

“But you know Edge, there _are_ monsters.”

“I know, Bono.”

“Everywhere. I didn’t want to believe it.”

“I know.”

“And people _elect_ them _._ They _choose_ them. I feel sometimes…as if the whole world just keeps drinking from the river of forgetfulness. Again and again.”

“Sweetheart.”

“All that effort, and it’s always one step forward and five steps back. All those politicians I worked so hard to find common ground with—‘Let’s find _one_ stupid, obvious thing we can agree on, Senator Gobshite! Yes, it _is_ obvious that babies shouldn’t die if we can save them, isn’t it?’—and then the sweaty handshakes and photo ops. How can I even talk to any of them now? I feel played for a fool.”

“Well, that’s because they—” No, I am not going to let you get agitated. “But look Bono, it’s not _your_ job to fix everything.”

“Should I just drop it all?”

“Never, but maybe someone else could shoulder some of the burden for a while.”

You look at me as if I’ve just said something utterly irrational, then you give a sigh that could only be produced by the most powerful pair of lungs on earth. “Anyway, I can’t begin to describe to you all of the places in which I hurt.”

“Are we talking about physical pain, or—?”

“Who can tell the difference anymore.”

Now I’m on alert. You almost never say things like that. Almost never. “This isn’t like you.”

“Well, nothing is like _anything_. I don’t recognize the world. I barely recognize myself.”

“Do you recognize me?”

You reach up to lay your palm on my cheek, and the smile that blooms on your face is the same one you had at twenty-five, at sixteen. “Of course, love. You are steadfast as the mountains, and you’re only feckin’ brilliant. Your beauty is as limitless as the Milky Way.”

And with that, you’re back.

“Alright B, don’t lay it on with a trowel. Also, consider not talking again for a bit.”

“Give me a kiss, then.”

I do; I plant one right on your smile. You open your mouth of course, for a bit of tongue.

“That’s much better, Edge.”

I slide my hand up under your tee-shirt, trace circles over the warm skin of your back. Tug you just a bit closer. “Let’s see just how quiet you can be.”

“Mm. A challenge.”

“I know. I don’t remember you ever having an orgasm with singing a full aria. At least, not in _my_ experience.”

“What can I say? Your completely justifiable insatiable passion for me demands an appropriate response.”

“Shh. I'm serious now.”

“Okay.”

I should be more sensible. I know the best thing for your voice would be a solid night’s sleep and nothing the least bit strenuous. But inevitably, fatefully, beautifully, we move toward each other, and our clothing falls away. We do take it a bit easy; nothing more than deep, long kisses, hands and fingers tuned finely by years of experience. There is no aria when you come, just a series of short, sharp breaths near my ear, then a long exhalation that turns into my name. Which means more to me, anyway, than any song I’ve ever heard.

There is no one I’d rather be with than you, whether in crisis or in paradise.

***

“Can I talk now?”

“Who could possibly stop you? But drink this orange juice first.”

You drink my offering in one gulp, and put the glass down on the bedside table with a thump. “I’ll be _fine_ tomorrow, Edge. I feel great.”

“I know…” I slip back into bed and shiver.

“What now?”

“No no, I know you’re fine. I know. It’s just that I have never seen you look so distressed on stage. Not even all those times you fell off. Not even when _I_ fell off! Sorry. I don’t even know why I’m talking about this. Ignore me.”

You squeeze my fingers under the covers. “You know, I was afraid I wouldn’t get it back this time, Edge. I was—”

Silence. You clutch my hand in the dark and I know both of us are reviewing various health scares going all the way back to 1999. I can’t let this go on or we’ll never sleep.

“But after all, it was just the smoke machines, Bono.”

“It was just the smoke machines. _Just the smoke machines,_ Edge! How un-rock’n’roll can you get if you’re suddenly allergic to a feckin’ smoke machine?”

“Pretty un-rock’n’roll, old man. By the way, you’re still talking a lot.”

“I’m talking to _you_ , quietly, in a large, soft, oddly rectangular bed. It’s fine.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Look, I won’t talk in the morning. I won’t use my voice at all until soundcheck, okay? I’ll drink fourteen cups of green tea with honey for breakfast. I’m not gonna talk to the fans. I’ll go out and shake a few hands, because I don’t want anyone to worry…You know, Aoife has been all over the social media the last few days. She gathered up some good wishes and sent them to me in one long email. Just the sweetest ones, or the funniest ones. Such good people, Edge.

“They are. We have the best fans.”

I can hear your brain working in the dark. You’re obviously not finished talking. You will never be finished, and that’s a good thing. That’s what I want.

“I keep thinking about The Monster Words now.”

“Yeah?

“Yeah. They really are a blessing, you know. I think writers tend to have a religious nature even if they think they don’t. Because there’s a power in words that’s almost supernatural, in how you arrange and rearrange them. The ancient Hebrews knew this. Every letter has a certain kind of magic. So you can use words to conjure something into being, like a golem. Or you can use them the other way. I mean, if you acknowledge something by naming it, maybe you can appease it, hold it at bay…How come you’re not telling me to shut the fuck up?”

“Because I love you. God Bono, nobody of any importance would want you to shut the fuck up, okay?”

You move toward me again with a satisfied little wriggle. Next thing I know, you’re asleep. I don’t know how you do that, shutting yourself down so efficiently as soon as you’re ready. But I do know that no matter what, you’ll be up again, a couple of hours before I am, reading the news with that severe look back on your face.

Your face.

And your words _do_ have a supernatural effect on so many people. How many times has someone waylaid you and said, “I was going to kill myself but then I heard a U2 song on the radio?” The music might be alright, but it’s the words that save them. It’s your voice. Your voice, that has often felt like a warm hand on my back. It was always there when _I_ needed it, too. Your precious, priceless voice.

I hold you close and feel your chest rising and falling, the breath going in and out of your tough little body, stirring a stray lock of hair that's fallen over your cheek. I can see you in my mind's eye, about thirty years younger, shoving your hair back behind your ears a little roughly, because hair was just a fact of life back then, and there was no need for you to be gentle with it. Ah, sweetheart.

“Monsters,” I whisper, naming them, acknowledging them. “Stay out of this room. You have no business here.”

And I kiss the top of your head, just as if you were a child of mine.


End file.
